


Falling

by MetaMouse321



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Don't Judge, Im gonna stop now, M/M, My First Fanfic, No Smut, Very little romance, also i'm sorry, but happy ending, i might be getting carried away with the tags, maybe a little angsty, mostly just precursory stuff, pre-book, really just exploring the roots of the relationship, sad stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3018761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetaMouse321/pseuds/MetaMouse321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale had known him forever, always marveled at that dark hair, those yellow eyes, those sharp, keen features, that quick, uncommon wit.<br/>And yet, he hadn’t known him long. There hadn’t been a long enough time to know him. But he did. HE had made it so, in all his confusing omnipotence. They were friends at the beginning. Had already been friends at the beginning.<br/>And then he fell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling

The Fall was spectacular. Not in the way that means fantastic or good in any way. It was horrible, agonizing to watch. But it was incredible. A marvel. A _spectacle_. Aziraphale should have felt righteous, proud of staying Above with the holy as the unworthy were cast Below.

Maybe he would have been more impressed if it didn’t feel as though he were watching a part of himself Fall instead of a great many angels. And in a way he was.

_He_ had fallen.

Aziraphale had known _him_ forever, always marveled at that dark hair, those yellow eyes, those sharp, keen features, that quick, uncommon wit.

And yet, he hadn’t known _him_ long. There hadn’t _been_ a long enough time to know _him_. But he did. **HE** had made it so, in all his confusing omnipotence. They were friends at the beginning. Had already _been_ friends at the beginning.

And then _he_ fell.

…

When the East Gate assignment had come down from Above, Aziraphale had tried to be happy.

“Congratulations! You’ll look bloody brilliant with a flaming sword, I think.” _He_ smiled at Aziraphale with those gleaming yellow eyes, despite all the implications. There was joy in those eyes. But pain as well. Well buried, but still pain.

“But I won’t see you anymore. I’ll be on earth with the—”

“You don’t worry about that. For now, just enjoy the promotion. Be _happy_ , Aziraphale! I know _I’m_ happy.”

Aziraphale appreciated the lie. They went to the Garden—to look at the gate, of course, it wasn’t as though heaven had begun to bore them endlessly and they wanted to explore all the things this new-fangled earth had to offer. No, it was to look at the gate. But they couldn’t very well _ignore_ one of **HIS** greatest creations, could they? So they walked trough the Garden.

They strolled among the plants all freshly created and named. They tried some strawberries and sampled a few grapes (both agreed that these could use a little something to reach their full potential, though neither was quite sure what). There were no seasons yet and, thereby, no _bad_ seasons. Everything was blooming.

They walked among a group of flowering pink clouds, bits of which floated around, spiraling giddily toward the ground.

“Cherry blossoms,” _he_ said, savoring the feel of these new words on _his_ odd tongue.

“Are they meant to fall like this?” Aziraphale wondered out loud.

The dark-haired angel shrugged, “If they aren’t, I don’t think they would be,” _he_ murmured, gazing at the softly falling petals, wonderstruck.

Aziraphale watched as the flowers fell, slowly, petal by petal. He had never seen anything so beautiful. Or so profoundly sad.

…

“I don’t like that Lucifer,” Aziraphale had worried. _He_ was hanging around, what Aziraphale thought, was a rather troublesome bunch.

“Oh, come now,” _he_ had said, smiling that sly, easy smile. _He_ lounged on the immaculate grass of the Garden. _He_ seemed to do a lot of that these days. There was something tense about _him_ that seemed to need relaxing, something that had never been there before. “He just has some new ideas is all. Don’t worry about it. I’m only easing the boredom. You being down here, I’ve got no one to talk to.”

Aziraphale frowned. “No good can come of it.”

“Aziraphale, we’re _angels_. What can really happen?”

“Anything. **HE** can _do_ anything, remember?”

“But nothing happens that **HE** doesn’t want to happen. It’s all,” _he_ waved _his_ hand in the air, vaguely, trying to bring up the word.

“Ineffable?” suggested Aziraphale.

“That’s the word. Ineffable.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose.”

“Don’t just _suppose_ ,” _he_ stood and walked to where Aziraphale was watching the new water birds—ducks, they were called—swimming around in search of food. He had left the sword leaning against the trunk of the flowering apple tree by the gate. There was nothing to guard _against_ just yet anyway. “Trust me, Aziraphale,” _his_ eyes bored holes in his neck. “Nothing is going to happen.”

Aziraphale couldn’t meet those yellow eyes. Instead he watched as the ducks took flight, scared off by some slithery bugger gliding over the surface in little wiggly curves. The angels watched as a downy feather, white and perfect, drifted lazily down to the surface of the little pond where it was promptly chewed up by a large trout.

…

“I don’t get why we have to love them so much! Bloody weak, fragile things, and _stupid_!” _he_ said, pacing back and forth in front of Aziraphale, who was stolidly manning his post—at least he had been, until a few minutes ago. “Why can’t we love **HIM**? **HE** ’s not so like to bumble about in a Garden, mucking everything up for the rest of us,” _he_ said the words emptily, as though _he_ didn’t really believe them. But Aziraphale was beyond caring. He fumed, sword flaring in response.

“It’s because **HE** told us to! We’re **HIS** servants, in case you had forgotten! _We_ do as **_HE_** bids us! It’s why I’ve got this bloody job!” He swung the flaming sword in a wide arc for emphasis, grip tight. “It’s why I’m down here!”

_He_ turned, yellow eyes reflecting the flame in a way that…didn’t quite have a word yet. _His_ sharp features were flaring in rage. But underneath, there was a flicker of pain. “You didn’t have to take the job, you know!”

Aziraphale frowned. So _that_ was it. That was the whole point to all this. “We don’t disobey,” he said quietly through clenched teeth. He’d had enough of this nonsense. “We serve. We take what we are given and do as we’re told. You know that.”

_He_ scoffed and turned away. “Have fun doing as you’re told. Let me know when you’re back on the _right_ side of things.”

_He_ spread _his_ wings and flew straight up, disappearing past the stars.

Aziraphale gave a wordless shout and swung the sword, wide. It flared enormously, scorching the rocks, the grass, the apple tree.

An apple fell and broke with a _splat_ on the ground, brown, overripe flesh bursting from the thick skin, the stem smoldering from the flame that had knocked it down.

Aziraphale didn’t care. It had been rotten anyway.

…

The sky above the Garden was dark but for the scattered points of light. Aziraphale was watching the stars again. Nothing much else to do. _He_ hadn’t been back, not since they fought. Aziraphale felt wretched. He had _wanted_ to stay in heaven. For all its boredom, it was home. It was where _he_ was, anyway. But they had given an order. They had tossed the sword into his lap and said ‘watch the Gate’ and Aziraphale had obeyed. Because he had to. The angel put his chin on his knees and drew them tight to his chest. Now he wished he hadn’t.

A star shot across the sky.

Aziraphale sighed. They had been growing apart, really. Ever since the assignment. If Aziraphale hadn’t gone, _he_ may never have even started hanging around that Lucifer character.

Another star fell. And another.

And what was all that about hating humans? What was there to hate? Really they were benign at their worst. Aziraphale found their clueless banter endearing, what little of it he could hear from his post at the Gate. Aziraphale frowned. If only _he_ would get to know them better, maybe…

Another star fell. This time straight down. Another joined it. And another.

Something was wrong.

Aziraphale stood and squinted at the stars. No. Not stars. Stars didn’t have wings. Aziraphale’s eyes widened.

More angels fell from the heavens. The first he recognized. It was **HIS** favorite. Lucifer. He hit the ground first, screaming— _roaring_ —clawing at the sky as the ground beneath him heated and boiled, red-hot, pulling him Below to…to…

Hell. That was new.

Others fell after, molten earth swallowing them. Aziraphale didn’t breathe. He watched, awestruck, unsure of what to do.

And then.

One burst through the clouds, right at the center of his vision. One with sharp features. And dark hair. And brilliant, _terrified_ yellow eyes. He was shouting something. It had four syllables. It rhymed with ‘pail’.

Aziraphale felt his heart stop.

“No,” his lips said. “Nononononono.” _He_ plummeted, friction singing _his_ wings. Aziraphale ran—flew—faster than sound. There was a _boom_ somewhere behind him and angels falling to every side. But he didn’t care. _He_ hit the earth and Aziraphale reached, grasping at a slim, perfect hand.  He caught it, thank **HIM** , he caught it. “NO! No, hold on, please, please, just hold on.”

The earth bubbled beneath the fallen angel. Aziraphale didn’t notice. All he knew was his grip on those slender fingers, the look in those terrified yellow eyes. “Hold on!” he said, “I’ve got you!”

“Aziraphale!” _He_ gasped above the magma, eyes wide, panicked. _His_ hand was slipping.

“Don’t let go! Please, don’t let go!”

“Aziraphale!” the earth rose, the angel fell, and the molten ground swallowed that dark hair, those yellow eyes. “I-”

Aziraphale felt _his_ fingers slide away, felt the earth cooling again. And now his hand rested—empty—on solid, blackened ground. He shook. Angels fell around him, screaming, crying, hitting the earth in fire, then leaving it in smoke.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the ground. His eyes burned from the smoke. Or maybe he was just crying. Maybe both, he wasn’t sure. Something within him was shattered, scorched, dust. “I’m sorry…I need to tell you…that I’m sorry…” He trembled, gripped the earth, crushed it between his ragged fingers. He screamed and pounded at it. But it would not yield.

So he sat, shaking, tears falling…falling…and breaking on the scorched earth. Until he felt nothing. Nothing at all.

…

The angel of the Eastern Gate sat.

He sat upright, staring straight ahead, with only the barest flicker of interest in his eyes. He hadn’t moved for hours. He rarely ever did. He had only barely budged when the humans came through. He had been polite, as the job demanded of him, and nothing more. And now he watched them retreat, carrying the sword with them.

Aziraphale heard a slither in the grass. He jerked to a battle-ready stance, wishing for a moment he still had the sword.

“Who’s there?”

“Hello,” came a voice from within the Garden. It sounded…familiar. Impossibly familiar.

Aziraphale turned toward the voice. He searched the entrance to the Garden, frantic, hoping…and saw nothing, no dark hair, no sly smile, no—

“ _Ahem._ Down here.”

In the grass he spotted a dark, pointed head and bright yellow eyes. Beautiful, impossible yellow eyes. Aziraphale couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move.

The serpent slithered a little closer, timidly. “Look, please don’t smite me—or whatever it is you do—I mean, I’ve already got into the bloody Garden, so there’s no point to it all _now_ , is there?” The serpent looked slightly abashed. He also looked entirely clueless, unrecognizing.

Aziraphale sat down, a piece of him falling. Again. “N-no. I…I suppose not.”

The serpent slithered up next to him. “Quite a day, eh?”

“Yes…yes it is.” It was, indeed, quite a day. The humans had been cast out of the Garden in quite a hustle and bustle. And there was a new sort of greyness smudging the horizon. Aziraphale had been watching it with vague curiosity.

 “So, er, what’s your name, then?”

“Aziraphale,” said the angel, making sure not to stare. Just because you were numb didn’t mean you had to be rude. “Yours?”

The serpent nodded. “Crawly. Well, for now at least. Not so sure about it in the long run. Nice to meet you. I’d shake but, er,” he sort of wiggled his middle for emphasis. “no hands.”

“I understand. It’s nice to meet you as well,” he looked at the serpent sidelong. “Are you the demon, then? That did the, er, tempting?”

“That I am,” the serpent reared up, proudly. Then he shrunk back, perhaps remembering whom he was talking to. “Didn’t really mean for it to go quite so far though.”

Clouds brewed in the distance. Aziraphale found the new word in his mind just as it came into being. _Storm_. He liked it, for all that it meant anyway. He and the demon watched it for a while.

“Storm,” said the serpent, tasting the new word with a flick of his forked tongue. “Good name, that. Works rather well, I think.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and looked at the demon, hope rising in his chest. “Pardon me, but…have we met before?”

The serpent looked at him, unblinking, with those familiar yellow eyes. He flicked his tongue, once. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh,” The angel of the Eastern Gate watched as the first raindrops fell, clear and bright and perfect. Like stars. Like angels.

He held out an elegant hand to catch one. It’s perfect form ruptured, shattering into its pieces and seeping into the lines of his palm, meager bonds broken.

Aziraphale shivered and hugged himself, pulling his wings over his head to keep off the rest of the rain.

He watched the bulk of the storm slowly creeping toward them. A few drops began bruising the flowers, pestering the leaves, the scorched bark, the ripe apples of the tree by the Gate. Water dripped from the branches, most heavily from the blackened void where the one apple had hung. Until Aziraphale had knocked it down.

The angel hugged himself tighter.

The serpent turned his yellow gaze on the humans, soggily trudging toward cover. “Poor buggers,” he said quietly, almost—but not quite—to himself. “I don’t really get the whole hating of humans nonsense. What’s there to hate, really? _I_ thought they were quite nice. Lovely couple, really, if a bit easily influenced.”

Then Aziraphale noticed, among the grass, beside the blackened trunk, a sprout. It was small, the rain pounding its leaves a bit harder than was entirely necessary. But it stood proud, growing strong (if a touch insecurely) from the spot where, once, there had fallen an apple.

The serpent said something and the angel of the Eastern Gate broke out of his reverie.

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale, politely. “What was it you were saying?”

“I _said_ ,” hissed the serpent, the demon, the fallen angel. “that one went down like a lead balloon.”

“Oh,” said the angel, watching the tender green leaves reach up…up…“Yes.”

He smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> First Fic, YAAAAAYYYY!!! Please leave as many comments as possible, I absolutely LOVE feedback, especially on the early dialogue. They felt a little OOC, but that might just be paranoia. Anyway. I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for being awesome enough to read Good Omens/GO FanFic! You keep doing you!


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